Chapter Text
"You okay?"
The question is sincere. Leehan wishes it weren't.
The kindness isn't what makes him shake; it's not the cause of his furrowed brows or shaking knees. Unbeknownst to Taesan, it's Taesan himself who has made Leehan this way.
"Yeah, just a dry throat," Leehan responds, taking a sip from the flavored green tea. If Taesan doesn't believe him, he doesn't say it. Instead, he nods before turning back to the movie. It's some new horror movie that Woonhak insisted on all of them watching together. Probably in hopes of scaring one of his hyungs, but it seems the plan backfired when the maknae himself is pale in the face about 10 minutes into it.
Leehan isn't the only one to notice this. Taesan watches the younger with a smile that's warm, gooey, something like honey. The white light from the movie scene flashing by makes him glow. Taesan is so pretty to watch, so pretty to fall in—
Leehan thinks being sad about this kind of thing would hurt less than feeling anger at Woonhak and jealousy toward Taesan.
Woonhak hasn't done anything; Taesan doesn't owe him anything. Yet somehow Leehan still wishes to be the one who causes endearment to fill the dark brown, almost orange-tinted eyes. Wishes to be held fondly by Taesan in a way that exceeds the fields of yellow roses and enters the territory of beautiful red ones.
The only red Leehan gets with flowers is nothing close to that. It's bitter, terrifying. Disgusting.
Taesan is a serpent. Scaly yet somehow smooth in how he swirls under Leehan's skin, reaches his throat, and wraps around it as if it were a tree limb. Devilish and not cautious of just how tight his being squeezes until Leehan's lungs lack oxygen.
Bloody petals to tile, the stark red to white is blinding. The lights don't flicker, however, with the speed at which Leehan blinks, his eyesight sees flashing. Cool-toned petals of the morning glories are soaked in spit, drool from his lips falls and hits a petal. How pathetic must this sight be? Luckily, the mirror is high above him; the sight would be horrid.
Iron with floral notes seeps into the air, its unpleasant.
If Leehan had the choice, he would not feel love so deeply. He would not love a boy. But choice? Having the option to choose? Has Leehan ever had such an opportunity?
He doesn't think so.
The next time Leehan's cough catches Taesan's attention is when they're studying together at a cafe. Leehan grabs a tissue to wipe what he believes to be drool at his lip, only to find Taesan balking at the tissue in his hand.
"Dude, you're bleeding!" he panics. Leehan curses under his breath.
"It's nothing. Probably just a rough dry patch in my throat," he excuses it easily, waving his hand in dismissal at the concern.
"Your throat seems to be a problem lately."
They go back to studying, but numbers begin to look like weird letters, and letters begin to look like witchcraft spells. Nothing is making sense. He sees Taesan glancing his way multiple times throughout the silence they let stretch.
Why can't Leehan be normal? Someone cheerful, enjoyable, and likable. Someone like Woonhak. Why does he have to be s—
"Are you sick?" Taesan asks quietly, as if saying the words too loud would be a bad thing. Almost like the question he asks already has an answer in his head. What does he know? How could he know? Is it possible Taesan watches Leehan in a way that holds something close to the color he holds for Woonhak, or is it purple in the way sympathy and pity color one's words?
"No, no, just—" Leehan pauses. He looks towards Taesan and the thorns that poke his rib cage, which get closer to his lungs until the petals itch his throat to dry, bloodied lips; the thorns squeeze harder until they puncture what is an organ of his lungs and not stems. Leehan sees his eyes, and the orange almost looks like they hold something for him.
Almost.
"Nah, I'm not sick."
"In sickness and in health! I now pronounce-" Woonhak turns off the TV and turns towards everyone.
"Boring!" he drags the word out playfully. "Let's do something more entertaining than watching a romance movie with bad acting."
Sungho scoffs, seeming more interested on if the couple actually got hitched or not. Soon, convincing Woonhak to give him the remote because 'there may be a twist.'
Leehan thought the movie was enjoyable. It wasn't too boring, but there could be more fun things to do. He just doesn't know what said fun things could be. What definitely wasn't fun was watching Woonhak and Taesan be side by side as blood begins to itch at the petals that rise in his throat.
Being able to keep them at bay has become a talent; it's easy. The tears that shine in his eyes, however is new and not as easy to calm down.
Taesan seems to agree with Woonhak with the laugh he lets out and the hand he smacks to his arm. Leehan watches how Taesan lingers his touch there. Woonhak catches this, smiles at the older, and Taesan glows like he's accomplished something.
Sick.
It makes Leehan sick.
That night, Leehan had to excuse himself to the restroom. Letting out warm tears that had no punch to his lungs because he already lives in a constant state of such a feeling. He may cry, but he doesn't weep, doesn't delve more into his sorrow. Simply becoming a puppet to the emotions that patch his throat skin purple and blue, eyes red, and lips cracked.
He may say nothing is wrong, constantly waving off concern from Riwoo and Jaehyun. Telling them it's simply something he can cure, can fix. The only way to fix something incurable is to cease the existence that fuels it. Leehan has thought of that in passing, but can never bring himself to be a boy lost to love.
Though considering his circumstances, the days are wilting just as much as the flowers that bud his bile.
Leehan then excused himself for the night. Wanting to be home to throw up all that's sick with blood and turmoil. All that's colored Taesan and what loving does to someone who is unable to be loved back.